It is but late that our orthography was fixed even in the most common words. Two hundred years ago, every person spelt as he liked: a privilege enjoyed still later than that period by “royal and noble authors,” who seem, in this instance, to claim the liberty enjoyed by their ancestors. Since the time orthography has been thought of some consequence, we have attended partly to pronunciation, tho’ chiefly to derivation. But, in some cases, where we should altogether have spelt according to derivation, we have taken pronunciation for our guide. And this has occasioned some confusion; for instance naught is bad—nought is nothing; these terms were long confounded, and even now are not kept perfectly distinct, which has occasioned ought to be written aught. Wrapt is envelloped—rapt is hurried away, or totally possessed: the first of these is frequently used for the last, by some of our modern poets. Marry is an asseveration—marry, to give in marriage—the spelling these words the same, confounds them together; we should have preserved for the first, the real word mary. It was a common thing formerly to swear by Mary, the a in which was pronounced broad, as the Priests of that time did the Latin Maria, from whom the common people took the pronunciation. In one of the pieces in the first volume of the collection of old plays, it frequently occurs, and is spelt as a proper name, Marie. Permit me to observe, that the Editor, by modernizing the spelling in the other volumes, has prevented their being made this use of, as they might have shewed the progress of orthography as well as of dramatic poetry.
In the reign of James the first were many attempts to reduce orthography altogether to pronunciation. In our time we have seen some attempts to bring it altogether from derivation—but surely both were wrong. Whoever reads Howel’s letters, or Dr. Newton’s Milton, will see, that by a partial principle too generally adopted, they have made of the English language “a very fantastical banquet—just so many strange dishes!”
There are many inversions of phrases used in poetry which are contrary to the genius of our language. In the translation of the Iliad there frequently occurs “thunders the sky”——“totters the ground,” meaning that “the sky thunders” and “the ground totters.” This change of position has the authority of some of our best poets, tho’ it frequently obscures the sense, and sometimes makes it directly contrary to what is intended to be expressed. Our language does not, with ease, admit of the nominative after the verb. If we read, tho’ in poetry, “shakes the ground” we do not readily understand that “the ground shakes,” but rather refer to some antecedent nominative that has produced this effect. To adopt the construction of the ancient languages is as awkward as to adopt their measures. You will understand this to be meant as a general observation, the truth of which is not destroyed by a few exceptions where the inversion may be happily used. The sense in these verses of Pope “halts” as much by Roman construction, as the Rhythmus in Sidney does by “Roman feet.”
In reading Latin and Greek we are obliged to keep the sense suspended until we come to the end of the period, but it is not so in any modern language that I know of, except now and then in Italian poetry; so that there is a sameness of construction in all of them when compared with the ancient languages. Now, this suspension of the sense is surely no advantage, therefore if it were possible to make English like Latin and Greek in this respect, it would hurt the language.
In another letter I may possibly resume this subject.
I am, &c.
LETTER IV.
OUR greatest mistake in the pursuit of happiness as well as of science, is to judge by the perceptions of others, and not by our own. This perversion is admirably ridiculed in some comedy, in which a young fellow naturally sober, gives into debaucheries merely because they are fashionable. “I am horrid sick”—says he—“I am tired to death—I hate cards—but it is life for all that!”
My friend, examine your heart—You yourself are the best judge of what contributes to your own happiness. Is the pleasure of shooting equal to the fatigue?... Put down the gun. Is the cry of the hounds a sufficient charm to remove the fear of breaking your neck?... Come off your horse.—And in pure charity let me advise the “impatient fisher” to convert his rod into a walking stick, jemmy, and switch. “For what? Do not gentlemen love country diversions?” But if you do not, why should you be governed by their inclinations?